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Komsomolsk-on-Amur, September 20th, 1965
It wasn’t my fault. It couldn’t be. I held it together for the funeral, and through all the speeches, even when they lowered him into the ground. I spent hours blinking away tears, not wanting to share my grief with the well meaning but prying family and friends. I always hated the idea of funerals. Grief should be private. I did not want to spend the worst moments of my life being stared at for the slightest reaction, on full display, forcing conversation with each person who felt they had something to say that I hadn’t heard before.
The funeral was simple, but pretty. The best we could afford. Still, it didn’t feel like enough. I wore my best suit, but today it felt cheap, unworthy. I could see every shade that my jacket was different from my pants. The service was held in a small church, though no one in the family was religious. My wife spoke, but not me. I could never find the words for anything like this. I’m sure her eulogy was beautiful, but I didn’t hear it. I didn’t want to. I could feel winter coming. It was just cold enough to notice the unpleasantness, like the weather was telling us to hurry up and get the burial over with. Indeed, some people wished us well and left as soon as the grave was filled. I looked over at the gravestone. “Little One,” it said.
Olga and Ivan, my other children, stood close to me but I barely registered. Olga was the eldest. My wife and I had her young, probably before we were ready, but she was strong and resilient. She wiped her tears as they fell, refusing to make a scene. She held her brother Ivan, our youngest child. He was a quiet kid, but today he clung to her sleeve sniffling and sobbing. He didn’t understand what was happening, but I think he knew deep down that he would never see his brother again.
I finally cried when we got home. The kitchen table was scattered with various cards and flowers. Two days worth of dirty dishes sat in the sink. Some pictures were missing from the wall to be laid beside the coffin at the visitation. But I was far too tired to put them back. I collapsed into an armchair across from the fireplace. I saw a picture of him on the mantel, covered in snow, cheeks red, but he still had the biggest smile on his face. First I tried to ignore it, then take in every detail. Then came the tears.
My wife, Isabella, looked up at me from across the room, and I saw a flash of hatred in her eyes. She had been in tears all day, but not talked to me, or even acknowledged my presence. She was angry at the universe for taking our child. And she was angriest with me. She hadn’t ever said that she blamed me, but I felt the coldness of her eyes on me, and I knew.
I had never even thought of the dangers of being a nuclear engineer with kids. All the accidents I heard about felt far away. Nothing could touch my perfect family. Because we were too content the way we were for that to happen. I probably brought home radiation every day, even more after the accident.
Komsomolsk-on-Amur, November 16th, 1965
After the initial shock, a coldness settled between us. I gave her space to let her grieve and she did the same for me. But I felt her anger all around me, choking me, and I guess at some point I started to feel it back. I didn’t deserve all of her resentment. I had loved him just as much as she had. No. I’d loved him more.
I had always been closer to Oleg than our other children. Olga and Ivan were more like me, reserved and quiet, but he was more like his mother, sweet and kind, but also with a sensitive side. He always held my hand when I walked with him, and wanted to be read to before bed. Sometimes when he had nightmares he would still want to crawl into our bed and cling to us. It had concerned my wife that he was so dependent, but I didn’t care. I would’ve protected him for as long as he needed.
Every day I looked forward to walking him home from school. It was my time to be happy and carefree. He had so many questions and I loved answering them. Why did airplanes fly? Why did it get so cold here? Everything made him happy and nothing could take it away. So when I walked with him, I’d look up at the sky and over across the trees, and I would feel at peace. Like nothing could ever be wrong.
Komsomolsk-on-Amur, November 22nd, 1965
When I got into the accident at the shipyard, I hated to be away from him in the hospital. I worried he would be lonely or scared. When I got home, he barrelled straight into my arms and I held him tight, not even thinking about the radiation I might be carrying. I didn’t think about it when I picked him up from school the next day. Not when I sat on the edge of his bed and kissed him goodnight. Not even when I’d woken up in the middle of the night to a tiny hand in mine, and seen him squished between me and Isabella.
When the doctors said he had cancer, I had a thought in the back of my mind that it could be because of me. But I pushed that thought aside because I had to be strong for him. He would survive. He had to. I couldn’t have a life without him. As the leukemia got worse, I kept those thoughts to myself, let them eat me alive and no one knew. Then when he died I just kept myself in such a deep state of denial that nothing could hurt me. Deep down I always knew it was because of me, but I wasn’t ready to feel it. Not yet.
I can still feel the anxiety of waiting in that plain white walled room for the doctor to come back. I could hear the sound of the fan clicking every time it turned, and the steady beeping of his heart monitor. I heard the muffled voices from the room next door, someone else getting equally terrible news. Not that I cared at the moment. He’d been lying there on that flimsy little hospital cot, and finally fell asleep. I had already done everything to keep my mind occupied. I’d filled out every form, gotten a small sandwich for my wife in the cafeteria, then flagged down a nurse to find Oleg another blanket. Just in case he got cold.
Isabella and I were sitting on little plastic chairs next to each other. She put a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away. I wasn’t affectionate like her, or sentimental. I preferred to feel things on my own. But she was so kind and thoughtful. Though she was trained as a historian, Isabella had taught kindergarten for as long as I’d known her. I didn’t care about the money, I respected the hell out of that. Her job required an endless supply of love and patience. I felt awful that she had to go through this. “Are you alright, Bella?” “Yes, darling.”
Komsomolsk-on-Amur, December 5th, 1965
At a certain point, I couldn’t take the silence anymore. And I guess neither could my wife. We said nothing more than a couple sentences a day to each other since the funeral. “It’s your turn to pick up Ivan from school.” “Alright.” I could see this life before me and it seemed to stretch out forever. Nothing between us except these plain statements and concealed feelings. There were times that I forgot about the coldness and I almost said something to her. And then I’d hurt until I went to bed.
I also cut myself off from my children. The less I talked to them, the less it would hurt when they were inevitably taken away from me. And the less I could hurt them too. I hated seeing Olga shut herself in her room with a book as soon as she got home from school, and little Ivan playing by himself, no older brother to help him build worlds with his model trains. But this was how it had to be from now on.
I started to drink more heavily. I had always set limits for myself, but they soon disappeared. I felt I deserved it to cure my sadness, but it never helped. I started with one drink after work, then two, then I was constantly lost in a drunken state. I was still sad, just more pathetic, blurring my thoughts and tripping over my words. Not like I had anyone to talk to anyways. So I would just sit in silence, reliving a string of memories that came and went. For each drink I had, I remembered a little less, but I still felt it all. All the walks home, and the days sitting at the kitchen table helping him do homework, and the plays he used to put on for us in the living room. And every happy memory made me cry because I could never feel it again.
This went on for a couple of months to a point where it was almost unbearable. We stopped eating dinner as a family. I left for work as early as possible every morning, and stayed for as long as I could. I tried as hard as I could to disappear for her. Every noise I made felt painfully loud, and every time I saw her I was filled with a certain dread that this would be the time she finally snapped and told me off. I was scared of her anger because I was scared to lose her love. Although I knew I lost her the moment we left for the funeral.
Komsomolsk-on-Amur December 29th, 1965
I was sitting on the edge of the bed one night, staring off into space, when she said “You know you’ve got two other kids to raise.” That was all I needed. “I loved him more than you did. You’ve no right to make it my fault just because you need someone to blame. You can’t be the only one who’s a little sad right now,” I blurted out in frustration. I felt all the weeks of anger and resentment behind my voice. “You only loved him for yourself. You just needed to feel depended on. You didn’t care who you hurt!” she responded. “That’s not true,” was all I could manage. “It is true. You drink every night because it’s true,” she shot back, “And you couldn’t even tell him why he was sick. Because you needed to be his hero.” I felt the sting of her words on my cheeks like she’d slapped me because I knew it was true. So that’s what she had been waiting to tell me. That I was selfish. We turned out our lights and moved to our opposite ends of the bed. “I love you.” I mumbled. No response.
And that was the moment I finally broke. She didn’t love me back. I had finally lost everything. I laid on my little side of the bed trying to cry quietly so she didn’t hear. But I know she did. She knew exactly how this was torturing me. I looked up at the window to try and find comfort. A beam of light shone through the thin curtain from the building across from us.
I don’t remember walking onto the balcony. It was freezing, but I barely noticed. Only two lights were on across the street - always the same two. I don’t know why the people in those apartments had their lights on, but I felt like I knew them somehow. I could see all the identical tree-lined streets full of buildings and their dark windows. I was completely alone out here. And I was completely alone inside with my wife. I hated being seen crying, but now I needed someone to know what I was feeling.
I remembered Oleg hooked up to a monitor and how he didn’t look like my son. He had gotten so thin, and so pale. He had lost all of his hair, and I could see the deep purple of shadows under his eyes. But most of all, he was so tired and so lifeless. He must’ve known what was coming for him. And it killed me to see him like that - too sad to smile, too tired to speak. And for once, he seemed to have run out of questions. All but one: “Dad, why is this happening to me?” But that was the one question I could never answer. He couldn’t know why. I still needed him to see me as good. Even though I wasn’t. Yes, I said goodbye to my son the day he died, but I lost him so long before then.
By the time I walked back inside, I was sobbing uncontrollably. It was my fault. I was selfish. I always needed to feel needed, so I latched onto the one person who loved me unconditionally. Maybe he didn’t need all those walks home from school, and all those bedtime stories. Maybe I did. I just needed to feel loved by someone. I wanted him near me so badly that I didn’t care what it would do to him. Isabella’s words echoed in my head. “You needed to be his hero.” I deserved to suffer for all the pain I had caused him. He was the kindest child in the world, and I didn’t even love him enough to keep him alive.
I walked into the bathroom. I always kept my pocket knife in our medicine cabinet. I took it out and hesitated for just a moment before I stabbed it into my wrist. The pain was awful, but not unbearable. But nothing is unbearable when it feels deserved. I was shocked at myself for a minute. I sat against the bathtub, bleeding and crying, feeling sorry for myself. I almost wished that Isabella would wake up and throw her arms around me.
Eventually, I got up and quietly as I could, bandaged myself up, and wiped away the blood - cleaning the evidence. I opened my bedroom door and looked at Isabella. She looked so peaceful in her sleep. Like our argument had been nothing to her. I felt a rush of anger towards her, then it vanished. I’d hurt her too. I climbed into bed. I was so exhausted from crying that I fell asleep instantly.
Komsomolsk-on-Amur, December 30th, 1965
I woke up to my wife roughly shaking me. “Tolya, why is there blood on the sheets?” But I think she already knew why. In a second, everything that happened the night before came back to me. I tried to pull my wrist away, but she was too fast. I saw the hurt look on her face as her eyes filled with tears and I felt awful. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “it’s really nothing.” I didn’t want to burden her. “We’re gonna talk about this,” she said. Then she ushered the kids off to school, and called in sick to work for both of us while I changed the sheets.
She sat next to me in bed, then pulled me in. It was the first time she’d touched me in months. I rested my head on her shoulder and squeezed her hand as hard as I could to keep from crying, but it didn’t work. “I’m sorry.” I said again. I could barely choke out my words as I felt all the weeks of anxiety and apprehension washing over me. “I’m sorry…please…don't…be angry.” She started rubbing circles on my chest as she kissed my temple. “Breathe, darling.” “I’m sorry,” I whimpered into her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, dear.” she whispered back, her voice thick with tears “I’m so sorry I blamed you.” Then, “I love you very much, darling.” I felt ashamed of myself. I hadn’t meant to guilt her back into loving me like this, but I felt safe in her arms, and I had missed her so much. She kept rubbing my chest as my breathing eased again. We sat there like that for a while. It was her who finally broke the silence. “You’re a great father, Tolya. He was lucky to have you.”
That night, we lay in bed beside each other, close enough to touch. I could feel the comforting warmth of her body next to mine. She kissed me quickly, then smiled at me. “He had a very short life, but you made sure every moment was worth living.” And I felt at peace. I made him happy. And even if I always felt guilty, my wife knew me. And she knew I was good.
Komsomolsk-on-Amur, December 31, 1965
I never wanted my other children to feel like they were in his shadow. Especially Ivan. I never wanted him to feel like he had to be more outgoing or that I wanted him to be more like his brother in any way. I saw him sitting by himself playing with his model trains in the living room. I was immediately struck by how small he was. “Can I play with you?” I asked. “No,” he said back. So I just sat next to him. He crawled into my lap and continued to play. He didn’t say anything to me, but I could only imagine the world he had built in his head, with people far more interesting than me.
Eventually he started rubbing his eyes and yawning. I set him down, then stood up, slowly. “It’s almost your bedtime, sweetheart.” He put his arms up to be carried. I picked him up, then paused, unready for the rush of emotions that came with holding a child. I felt so protective of him, but it hurt. What if something happened? He’d always been an independent kid, but that’s all he was. A kid. He dug his nails into my shoulder, and I held him tighter. I’d missed him. Maybe I was ready to be a father again.
We were never quite happy after that, but we managed. Over time, the burden I carried was slowly lifted, though it never truly went away. One night, when I came home from work, Olga and Ivan sat on our living room couch watching TV, so I walked over to the kitchen table where my wife was reading. I looked around at all the pictures of us on the walls: our wedding, bringing the kids home from the hospital, then their first days of school, our happy family, with no worries behind our smiles. Then I looked at the space between Olga and Ivan where he used to sit. What’s on your mind?” asked Isabella, reaching up to kiss me. I turned to her and said “We used to have everything.”